


Be still be calm be quiet now

by hummingrightalong, itslifethatscaresmetodeath



Category: Mr. Robot (TV), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-03-06 02:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18841705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hummingrightalong/pseuds/hummingrightalong, https://archiveofourown.org/users/itslifethatscaresmetodeath/pseuds/itslifethatscaresmetodeath
Summary: (main title inspired by The Cure's "Lullaby")Charlie, a serial killer and insurance adjuster, develops a crush on Malcolm Bright. He begins to copycat his father's murders to give him a chance to solve the case he was too young to be involved in. He considers it a gift. Over time, he's convinced himself he's in love with with Malcolm, even though Malcolm and Elliot are in a steady relationship.Charlie is based off of a short film "Slings and Arrows" with Ross Marquand- Aaron from the Walking Deadhttps://youtu.be/Cn2MADpH6nIIt's only 13 minutes long and I highly recommend that you watch it. You will not be disappointed. If you don't feel like it, for reference, Charlie is basically a sympathetic serial killer with daddy issues that looks like a well-manicured Ross Marquand in a bad suit.





	1. Good Neighbor

**Author's Note:**

> I was so inspired by Tom Payne's Prodigal Son trailer I couldn't help myself. Enjoy! :)  
> Will be mature and graphic scenes in future chapters

Charlie prefers to act sympathetically when he kills; the unjust cases he works on in his day job being the inspiration more often than not. He does his best, but it's not always enough.

The difference lately, is that *every* murder is sympathetic and justified when the greater cause is considered.

Agent...no, Detective now (ugh bullshit) Malcolm Bright.

It took ages to get an apartment next to him. Charlie can hear his screams at night, hear the legs of the bed frame scraping across the floor with his struggles, he has *marks* on his wrists. Some days he looks exhausted when he opens the door for the pharmacy deliveries. He’s clearly heavily medicated and self-restraining himself at night to keep his demons at bay. 

Charlie hears him moving around, unnaturally late and way too early, unable to sleep after he’s haunted by the visions of the Surgeon.

He knows with the instincts of someone who had their own struggles with a parent who was also a monster, that he fears so intensely that he’ll become the Doctor who butchered 23 men and women, kept their parts in jars. 

It makes Charlie squeamish at first, copycatting the murders. He’s never killed without considering the fastest, most painless way to take his victim (sometimes friend, if it was better for *them*) out of the world. Playing the games that Malcolm’s father had with people...it’s sickening, but he’s doing it for him. 

Charlie knows exactly what it’s like to be tormented by a memory. His own father and beaten him and terrified him most of his life, even when he moved far away that fear that the man was looming behind him, coming around the corner any second...he had to go back home and kill him to give himself the peace. The bastard had gone and had a heart attack before he even got the chance to see his face alive one more time. 

Malcolm was special, he didn’t want him to have the same unresolved issues, and truth be told he imagined (unable to ever know for sure) that it may be so much worse to fear that you’ll become the monster you couldn’t catch.

So he takes on the copycat persona, gives Malcolm Bright a chance to catch “his father”. He was a child, he looked up to the man, and never knew he was a monster until he was caught. He must feel guilty for being closest to him, and never suspecting that anything was amiss.

If anything, that should finally give him some peace; an exact replica of the cases Malcolm had only learned about as a child after witnessing the arrest. He’ll find satisfaction if he solves it himself, resolving the guilt. Of putting the man away.

He suspected, the worst of it all, that the brilliant man he’d grown to respect (yes, obsess over) and certainly *love* now...had to spend a fair amount of his time on duty consulting with his father. Hard to imagine doing that, how hard it would be. So Charlie is happy to give him any kind of closure.

They haven’t *officially* been introduced yet, Charlie has been gearing up. Tonight will be the night. Malcolm has been away or busy with work, but he’s been given a break and a few clues that said he had at least a couple of peaceful days and nights to look forward to before the next murder.

They’ve passed each other a few times in the hallway, both cataloging every detail of the other for their own reasons. Malcolm surely liked to know what was in front, behind, and around him at all times. That’d come with the territory. Charlie peeking at a case file in his arms, the bags under his eyes, and once a conflicted half-smile that must have signified the day had gone alright but something about it haunted him-- Charlie had heard about that one on the news, a separate case with a civilian strapped to a bomb. Malcolm had improvised. Charlie had hoped it felt good to *give it back* (the man’s hand) as he watched the detective carrying a bloodied cooler/somebody’s lunch box maybe. What he’d said was almost a pun, “I need to give them a hand”.

But the screams of his night terrors had been so loud that night. Charlie knew that what Malcolm had *had* to do might seem to him not much better than his old man. In the apartment across the hallway, the copycat sat up with the detective, thinking, trying to *project* the feeling *you’re not like him, I am*. 

It’s cliche, and the bespectacled insurance adjuster knocks on the door, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with a handkerchief while he waits. In spite of the rumpled trench coat he’s still wearing, an ID badge dangling from his neck, and looking like he was halfway through taking off his tie some time ago- and just forgot- he’s gorgeous, a single blue (or maybe green?) eye peering between several bolt chains. “Hi...we haven’t met. But, I was hoping a neighbor could borrow a cup of sugar?” 

“Sure.” The door starts to close but there’s a flash in Malcolm’s eyes, something that seems to say ‘you can turn it off when you clock out’. He rolls his eyes, annoyed with himself, and manages a smile. Just barely. “Come in, I’ll see if I remember where I keep it.” 

Charlie should resist but he can’t. There’s so much he wants to say but tonight he won’t. He’ll work his way up to that. It’d be incredibly inconvenient for the hopes he had for their future if someday this man put him behind bars, but he could make him understand in time.


	2. Captain Obvious vs Captain Oblivious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm gets to know Charlie a little. Elliot is amused that such an accomplished detective misses some obvious clues to the neighbor's crush on him.

It’s not like I don’t wanna let the guy in, but it’s been a long day. He’s barely in the door when I wonder just what the fuck is that stain on my tie. But I know. 

Shit.

My second thought- where’s Elliot? I don’t see him, or hear the hum of whatever device he’s technically (legally) not supposed to be fucking around with. The sliding glass door to the veranda is open ever so slightly, because I can clearly hear the busy sounds of evening traffic- two guys on the street below screaming about nothing in front of the apartment. Even if Flipper or Elliot *were* making noise they’d overpower it.

Kraken- the black cat I rescued as a “companion” animal in exchange for the talk therapy my boyfriend insists on me seeking- is slinking out the crack. Alright, good, he’s still pretty skittish, Elliot was actually better with him than I was at first. He has the experience with a rescue and I don’t know how Kraken would react to…”Charlie was it?” 

He nods. Yes. Charlie. 

I casually wonder what he’s thinking, judging maybe, as he takes in my overall appearance and allows his eyes to quickly dart to the coat rack where Elliot has hung one of his many black hoodies. For the most part they aren’t lying around anymore, he’s become accustomed to my neurotic cleanliness rituals.

Elliot’s new pair of shoes are sitting on the mat. Not sure he’s even worn them yet, he still rarely ever leaves the house, though his social anxiety has improved- something he gives me credit for but I don’t know. I find myself habitually straightening them, tucking them further out of the way, just in case any one of us were to trip on them. 

It has nothing to do with the fact that when I asked him to diversify the color of his wardrobe he chose gold (yes, gold, not yellow) chucks. He still has an endless supply of black hoodies and skinny jeans, but he found a vintage Cure t-shirt in a thrift shop, and that’s red. So, hey, we’re getting somewhere- even if it’s covered up sometimes. All the time. 

The excuse, he’s always cold. I’ve told him, ‘well, if you didn’t shave half your head…’ and immediately regret it because damn it looks good and someday he might take my advice. It only took me a year to get gold chucks. 

I open the first of our cupboards- sugar, I’m looking for sugar. I just need to remember if we left it in the bag, or did I put it in one of those convenient little containers my mother gave us to avoid ants. Who the fuck knows? I always think I have a system but sometimes I don’t remember exactly what it is any more than my poor housemate. 

I’ve got a lot on my mind, and today has been a tough day. No excuse, maybe. It does lead me to stop and think about whether I’ve had the time to take my evening prescriptions yet. I notice the neat little row of Elliots, right beside mine. I don’t think Charlie notices me casually gathering up the bottles labeled “Alderson”, and dropping them into a drawer out of respect to his privacy. The handful feels light. 

Shit. He’s out of Suboxone. 

Getting him to admit he had an addiction was a hell of a feat. Leaving the empty bottle of medication? I’m so proud.

“Can you excuse me a minute? Honestly, it’ll just take a second.” I say as I’m taking out my phone, accessing my pharmacy refill app. Honestly, maybe Elliot’s right, the wonders of technology. 

Of course he hates this app. Something about security. It stores too much information. He wouldn’t agree to date me until I agreed to delete my Facebook- which I never used except to say happy birthday to my mother once a year. It somehow made her feel more important if I did it in front of her friends than a private call.

Charlie waits patiently (especially considering the mess he’s walked into, and the poor guy just wants some sugar). He smiles politely. It’s a nice smile, he is tall and admittedly handsome, if a bit gawky- he probably makes his clients feel comfortable. If I wasn’t off the market he’d probably be my type (do I have a type? or do I just think he’s attractive?)...but I am...off the market.

As if to remind me the wind blows through the crack in the sliding door and makes the curtains flutter. I see Elliot, as I thought, smoking. Alternately petting Kraken and Flipper, I’m pretty sure he stops a moment to look over his shoulder and spot Charlie and myself chatting as I finally find what he asked for. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t seem that interested. He’s probably just happy that a gust of wind gave him a warning to an impending social interaction inside for him to avoid. God I love him. I don’t even know why, I just do. I guess that’s what love is. 

He accepts my offer of a cup of coffee. It’s polite, my mother raised me to be polite...even though I’m exhausted and I’d rather be out there cuddling (he finally lets me cuddle) and winding down. And it’s probably not that polite sitting here thinking so much about somebody else while I’m trying to have a conversation with the new neighbor. I’ll try to keep this brief.

At some point he mentions that he really respects what I do. “Maybe it’s weird to say, sorry about that, but you should know and I bet you don’t hear it much.” Huh? “Your badge, you’re still wearing it. And, uh...I saw you on the news this evening.”

Oh. Fuck my life. “Oh...what did that look like? I haven’t had the time yet to, umm, catch up.”

“I think they should put a leash on these reporters getting too close to police work,” oh we could be friends. “Especially when there’s something so important as a *hand* needing to be delivered. I assume it was a literal hand, considering what you said. I thought it was funny by the way.”

“Oh god what did I say?” Like I said, long day. And this wouldn’t be the first time I’d been caught on the news in a compromising way. 

“Just that you needed to give the ambulance a hand.” We both laugh. I didn’t mean to make a pun out of that but since it happened, you know what they say- laugh instead of cry or some shit like that.

The curtain billows again. I see Elliot has actually turned to watch us now. It’s darker out. I meant to keep this brief. “I hate to do this, but can we continue some other time?”

“When you don’t have another man’s blood on you? Absolutely. I look forward to it.” Oddly phrased, but alright. Seems like a guy I’d like to get to know. Platonically of course. I don’t know why the hell I’d need to say that. Turns out Elliot has some insight, because as soon as Charlie is out the door (he even rinses out his coffee cup before he leaves...I can’t help but notice that’s a strangely intimate gesture but maybe he’s just socially awkward...too).

“That’s my cup.” Elliot proclaims, as he comes through the door. He slides it shut, and locks it, behind him. We’re four floors up and I’m wearing off on him. 

“Yeah I guess it is. Sorry?” Shit, he’s right. It’s that one he was so excited to order online, with the coding joke on it I still don’t understand, no matter how many times he explains it to me, insisting it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever read. 

“He didn’t get it either, did he? He’ll bring our cup measure back, I hope. Not that we’ve ever used it, but a cup of sugar? Really?” I don’t get it. The joke or whatever he’s implying. I’m tired.

“Yeah. He just moved in, and-”

“Dude. This is a good neighborhood, he’s had the time, and his own damn money, to buy sugar. Dude’s been here a month.” To the former, I don’t know how much an insurance adjuster actually makes, but he has a point though there’s something more important to address here.”

“Did you put cameras in the elevators again?” Elliot looks at me like I have two heads, and they’re both poorly educated. 

“I wont answer that while you're wearing your badge.” 

“So you're guilty.” He smiles, giving me a ‘sorry, not sorry,” look- his nose crinkling in the most frustratingly cute way.

“Assumed as such until proven innocent in this country…”

“Elliot…”

“Malcolm…” He says in the same tone. “So are you dodging me, was today really so bad as to impede your powers of deduction, or do you really not realize what kind of sugar that guy was after? Sometimes I think that you’re so observant, you’re not consciously aware of it anymore, unless you’re on assignment. Ever think that’s going to come back to bite you in the ass?”

Yeah, all the time. But I’m paranoid. We both know that. No need to verbally acknowledge. “Look, my mind is on a million different things. Mom wants me for dinner tomorrow night, she won’t accept any more excuses for you not coming along...”

“Sure. Done.”

“Wait, what?” 

“I saw the news.” He has my tie in his hand. When did that come off? He’s holding it out over the waste basket. “There’s no saving this by the way.”

“There’s something else…” 

“Tell me after we take a shower.”

“We?” I’m not even ashamed to admit the hopeful tone in my voice. 

“Yeah, we. This job requires two people. You get yourself clean and I’ll distract you. Sound familiar?” His sardonic humor hasn’t lost its edge, though I know his general mood has improved drastically. 

I feel like I’m only being honest if I do my best to ruin this right now. “I have to go see my father tomorrow!” 

Elliot stops, looks at the ceiling for a second. “So this requires a higher level of distraction? I’ll get the lube, you meet me in the shower.” Yep this is love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't gotten to the meat of it yet, just world building.


	3. Hard Jerk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot tries to distract Malcolm. Next door, Charlie hears them and his infatuation grows. Pretty much smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rami Malek has stated that while Elliot Alderson is a fairly Anglo-Saxon name, his Mr. Robot character must be some other ethnicity. I went with Egyptian because that's what Rami is.

Call me a control freak. Well, don’t, I’ve heard it before. And I’m hearing it again, as he lays over me, bites gently on my collar bone, slides between my legs. 

He’s already worked me up in the shower, I hardly need more prep, but when he continues what he started a few moments ago, ‘fuck me already’ becomes, “fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” I’m not the kind of guy that’s going to be embarrassed if my boyfriend knows how to rid me of even the most basic language skills with just two goddamn fingers. I know he’s worried, but honestly at this point I’m not even thinking about my bad day, or the worse one that’s coming tomorrow. All I want is him, and I’ll make sure he knows it. 

“That’s what I’m trying to -” Elliot’s eyes slide shut as I grab his cock, giving it a few strokes while I hook my leg around his hip. He groans against my neck when I pull him closer. I know he’s blushing - alright, for him ‘blushing’ sort of means glowing. I’ve told him a thousand times and I want to tell him again.

“I know love, but I’m done with your pretty fingers. Right now, I only want your dick...” And I’m not waiting a second longer.

***

Malcolm had been distracted when we parted. I couldn’t help but take the scarf I’d seen him wearing when he came home. It- no, *he*- smells exactly like I imagined. Exactly like I remember. 

The main bedrooms of both our apartments are only separated by one wall. It’s too much, even laying in bed, the ugly striped thing that I’m sure was a gift (it didn’t match the others) balled up in one of my fists. 

I can hear him. Them. 

Whoever the guy is he doesn’t make much noise, or rather Malcolm just makes that much more. Another thing I know about him now, he’s demanding in bed. It’s cute as hell and just gets sexier with each rewarding encouragement. 

I think about how he’d look under me instead, how I’d study harder than any lover he’s had. I’d know to roll my hips just right, just like he asks- demands- and he’d make those noises for me. 

I lay the borrowed accessory out over one of my pillows, holding it close and breathing it in as if I was breathing his skin, rolling over onto my stomach, other hand in my boxers. It’s him insisting I fuck him, *now*, his hand guiding my dick, legs clasped tight around my hips, his blue green eyes open wide when we kiss. 

“Don’t. Just. Don’t. Fucking. Move.” Malcolm insists. It’s me waiting while he shouts a litany of curses that are simultaneously filthy, brilliant, personally complimentary.

*** 

“You are doing an amazing fucking job love...Jesus fucking Christ, are you related to Rah? Some ancient Egypt sex God? At least a Pharaoh with an excellent grasp of how to please a man?” He is really the best lover I’ve ever had. I can’t fucking tell him enough. It helps that I strongly suspect- fuck that, I *know*- he has a bit of a kink for encouragement and praise even if he’s yet to seem like he accepts that fact. “No one has ever fucked me this good and believe me, people have *tried*.” 

***

“Oh my god, your beautiful fucking mouth,” I never meant to get this infatuated with him. I sympathized with Malcolm, *knew* I understood him better than most could. Now I’m here with just his scent and the sound of his voice- intimately describing just how good he’s getting it- he’s drawn me in deeper than I could possibly imagine. It was enough just meeting him face to face- hell, I didn’t exactly mean to do that when I started this- it’s more than enough for my mind to wander away to the near future. 

Malcolm will have solved the one thing that’s haunted him, and we’ll be celebrating, just like this. 

Our clothes are a scattered mess on the floor, he’s holding me tight and still, holding onto the sensation and I can feel every muscle tense and spasm underneath me, around me. He’s still telling me exactly how to fuck him, but that’s just him. He’ll demand that I finish him off, “I know you...well enough...to know you’re getting close.” Anybody else would joke, insinuate, but not him. Damn that mind of his, I’m sure he would be this descriptive and thorough even if he hadn’t spent his life as an expert profiler. “Jerk me off...fuck, fucking faster than- yes, just like that.” Malcolm will sigh when I get it just right. 

He’s squirming now, his heel digging into my lower back and fingernails leaving imprints on my wrist as he’s decided to take even more control of the pace and help me jack him off. “I love you, you *GOD*,” he’s kissing me and the control freak still has his eyes open, I *know* he would. I still can’t drown out the moans when his come spills over my hand, I’ll know before he finishes demanding it that he wants me to come inside him, “now, *Charlie*.” He’ll smirk, and push me off, reaching for the nearest thing to clean up with. The scarf he hates. 

I’m drifting off, casting aside the scarf I used to clean myself up. It’s gone quiet in the other apartment. I wonder if his guest left yet. I’m sure I just missed the sound of the door shutting behind the guy. Doesn’t matter, someday soon he’ll be mine. 

***

“Did you hear that?” Elliot’s asking me, as if I can focus on anything right now, drifting off. 

“What?” My boyfriend taps the wall behind our heads, shaking me a little. “That guy’s headboard beating the wall?” Maybe some of Elliot is rubbing off on me because I smirk. “No, seriously. I *hope* he has a friend over. I don’t think you can jerk it that hard.”

“He could have a guest.”

“More likely he has a fucking machine.” Why go to that? Before I can ask he’s explaining, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. “Yep. Look. I was pretty sure I didn’t hear anyone coming or going and it’d be pretty weird that he was expecting company when he had to be asked to gtfo as late as it was when you got rid of him.” He’s showing me the footage he’s hacked into of the hall cameras, fast forwarding to the moment our neighbor showed up, speeding through the time since until it’s showing a live feed of the current moment. 

“Ok. So he’s a lonely guy. Or his headboard is too close to the wall. A bit of both.”

“Babe. I literally don’t believe anybody can jerk it that hard. I’m tempted to try but it’s alarming, right?” He might have a point. It’s at least a little awkward. Especially after Elliot’s not so casual suggestion that the new guy in the building had a bit of a crush on me, that he’d been jacking it while we were fucking. It’s inconvenient enough, potential for plenty of problems between neighbors, that the apartments are set up the way they are, bedroom against bedroom. 

“Wanna sleep on the couch?”


	4. Call Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie finds out Malcolm has a boyfriend

When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, I feel my stomach drop to my feet. Malcolm (who I’d normally be delighted to see) is pressed up against the door to his apartment, a man in a black hoodie and skinny jeans (even fucking black chucks) has his tongue down his throat and and I can see him sliding his hand up Malcolm's shirt. He's dressed oddly. Casual in jeans and a t shirt with a leather jacket - I hate it. Whoever this man is must be a terrible influence.

Managing to stop the doors just in time before they close again I force myself to slowly approach my own apartment. I want to interrupt but at the same time...I can't stop watching. Malcolm changes their position, apologizing quietly when the other man's back collides with the wall a little too hard but they’re both giggling and kissing again.

It's actually the other man who notices me first, trying and failing to disengage from the PDA as Malcolm just continues to kiss down his neck and unzip his hoodie. Finally, he manages to get his attention. "Mal," (seriously?) "Malcolm, babe, you gotta stop..." Malcolm actually whines, irritated but the other man forcibly turns his head to face me and he immediately backs off. 

He's flushed as he ducks his head, letting his hair fall forward but not the slightest bit ashamed and really, just too horny to care that they have an audience. The way he looks makes me slightly weak. His attire aside, the desire radiating off of him is intoxicating and with a little imagination, I can almost pretend that I’m its intended recipient as I soak it in. 

The other man seems slightly embarrassed as he quickly zips his hoodie and tries to smile in my direction. "You're our neighbor - the sugar neighbor..." He says, then laughs as he reaches out to offer a hand. He steps forward, stumbles a but - he's drunk and Malcolm quickly steadies him with a hand on his hip. It’s still intimate but the mood has changed slightly with a spike of concern in the atmosphere.

"Careful, love," he mutters, throwing me a quick smile before pulling the other man close to his side. "Charlie. His name is Charlie, remember I told you? Charlie, this is my boyfriend, Elliot."

The mix of emotions quickly cycling through me are hard to describe, they're changing so fast. I’m enraged to find that Malcolm has a lover - sure I'd heard him through the wall but didn’t think...well, I’m not sure what I should have thought. Of course such a magnificent specimen of a human being should have a companion. But this guy?

Remembering my manners I shake Elliot’s hand, at the same time taking him in. Sure, ok, he's pretty, slightly taller than Malcolm but slimmer. He looks tired in a way that’s probably chronic, dark circles around his murky green eyes. His skin is somehow golden brown and pale at the same time...honestly, I can't imagine what’s so special about him. 

"That - that was tacky. Sorry. It won't happen again..." Elliot promises, even as Malcolm quickly kisses his neck just below his ear. He gives him a dirty look but Malcolm just smiles and it's not long before Elliot ducks his head pulls his hood up, removing the temptation. Malcolm pouts like a petulant child but says nothing about it. 

"Yeah, sorry Charlie. Just got a little carried away. Its Elliot's birthday -"

"Oh? Happy birthday...and its fine. It's late, who else would be roaming the halls at this hour?" I manage to remark, feigning indifference as best I can, immediately regretting it when Elliot gives me a strange look. Drunk but not stupid, apparently.

Well, he has that going for him. At least Malcolm isn't wasting his time with some ditzy twink.

Obviously I need to give some kind of alibi before either of them asks." You look like you had more fun tonight than I did. Work. You know how it is..." It wouldn't surprise me if the kid was unemployed but I bite my tongue and hope the excuse flies.

"Malcolm said you do insurance claims..." Elliot says slowly. Shit. Can't help but notice the other man's eyes widen as they fall on my shirt collar. "You ok?" He asks, nervously.

"Cut myself shaving." 

"Who doesn’t from time to time?" Malcolm says. He seems slightly impatient and when I dare to take a quick look at how tight the front of his jeans have gotten it’s obvious why. Elliot, for his part, seems oblivious.

“Yeah, grooming, the struggle.” Elliot quips.

They invite me in, despite how little interest either man seems to have in company at this hour, in their state. As much as I’d like to have another chat with Malcolm, I cut the visit short. A cup of coffee, an official introduction to their cat and dog (therapy animals for each of them apparently). When Malcolm starts chatting about Elliot’s business, complimenting his brilliance and dedication, I can’t stomach it another second. He has no idea how much better he deserves.

Some time between saying our goodbyes, and getting myself settled for bed, I hear them fumbling and crashing through the apartment. No doubt picking up where they left off in the elevator. But it’s not long before they quiet down and I hear a stereo cranked up. 

Blondie. I hear a lot of 80’s and 90’s classics in the evenings, but I can’t help but feel the song choice was deliberate, especially when I hear Malcolm's lovely voice belting it out along with the lyrics. He’s even more talented than I thought, and unaccompanied. 

It's like he’s calling out to me and It’s that much easier to imagine he’s in my arms tonight. 

***

Charlie is red-eyed and weaving a little down our shared hallway when I finally complete the *third* trip back to my office today. The last text Elliot sent me was a couple of hours ago. He wasn’t angry, just tired. He’d had one of those days.

I use my phone to remotely check the camera feed he’s set up just over the counter, his row of meds. Tracing the day back I can see he’s taken his meds. Sometimes they tire him out. Sometimes his stress does. The computer store was open today and he’d woken early (which he despises with a passion) to open it. A client had a huge problem apparently. 

Even looking through my basic knowledge of understanding when it comes to technology I had no idea what he was talking about last night when he explained the customer’s problem. The fact that it wasn’t vague meant that it was legit, probably important to the stranger’s profession. Sometimes Elliot’s stories were slightly vague, or felt that way, and often those cases were mainly handled by Darlene, her girlfriend Shama (or Trenton depending on who you asked and when), sometimes Tyrell when he was stateside.

It’d been an FBI requirement to have basic awareness, leaving the rest for the IT department. So I couldn’t help other than to listen. 

Fuck I loved to listen to his stream of passionate explanations, even if it was beyond most human beings. We had a common ground in statistics, social engineering. In my career of course there was a different term for the latter, but hey, call it what it is- mental/emotional manipulation by whatever means to produce a result or reveal a secret.

Guess I’m getting ahead of myself. 

It doesn’t take a genius (like myself) to see that Charlie is worn out, that his eyes are red from a combination of physical exhaustion and a fair amount of crying. 

What had upset him so much? My first thought, admittedly, was of a few nights ago. When, as Elliot put it, Charlie’s ‘signature hard-jerk’ had ruined the mood for my boyfriend. He’d spent half an hour apologizing for what was probably paranoia, until his meds kicked in. 

The next morning over breakfast we’d talked about it again. I assured him that while I tidied up after he passed out, I had a pretty brilliant idea. Because he wasn’t wrong. It was awkward, even if *of course* he had nothing to worry about. Elliot opened up, saying I *deserved* a normal social life without his issues getting in the way. They don’t get in the way and i’m not normal. I don’t want normal, I want what we have. 

And, as I insisted until I was sure he’d accepted it, the most important thing to me was him. He wasn’t wrong either, there was an awkwardness to the few encounters with our new neighbor. Charlie was obviously a lonely guy, and for whatever reason, had quite the crush on me. Back to my perfect plan, which I had planned to approach Charlie about as soon as I had a free moment. 

“Hey neighbor…” He doesn’t respond at first, eyes on his briefcase and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Or at least the weight of an innocent person’s future. I’ll admit I don’t have much more understanding of what he does than anybody else, or I didn’t until I’d talked to him a bit. “Charlie. Everything alright?”

I get a guilty look in response when he shakes his head, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “No. I mean- yeah, no. But it’s ok. It’s late.” A half smile. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t promise anything, but when I’m stuck working it out aloud helps.” Our new neighbor, maybe my new friend, laughs. 

“You talking therapy? I thought you were a profiler.”

“I am. Which to varying degrees requires knowledge in psychology. And keen awareness has already told me half the problem. Something at work you can’t get around? I personally know a lot about that.”

“It’s different, but yes. All yes.” He gives me the quick and dirty version as I invite him into the apartment. I know from the silent hum and closed door that Elliot has passed out in his room. We have two bedrooms for a number of reasons. It’s hot as hell in his, and if we’re sleeping together (most nights) we use mine. 

Occasionally the best of couples need their own space, their own hobbies. There was a time early on when I used to kick him out of my room if I saw a night terror in my future. It’s been hard to scare him away, and once he saw it, once I’d come close to hurting him pretty badly, he was still willing to share a bed with me. There’s still nights I need the restraints. He agrees. But he stays.

Charlie’s problem tonight? A lot of red tape was preventing him from helping the right person get what they deserved. There was no loophole in sight, and from how he spoke he knew them all. “Without giving me specifics, breaking any rules that’d get you in trouble, tell me everything. I’m betting we can find a workaround. There’s always something.”

“I hate to impose…” He’s clutching a folder he’s pulled from his briefcase. It’s obviously destroying him, whatever this is. 

“Don’t worry about it. You said I deserve more credit than I get, remember? I appreciated that. I’m sure it’s the same for you. I’m sure most people see you as a middle man in a soulless process. But it’s easy to get attached to these things, isn’t it?”

“The system is inherently unfair, and there’s rarely enough I can do to make up for what’s already happened. Horrific injuries, deaths, it’s all long over by the time an appointment with me rolls around.”

“But this thing you’re in the middle of- you know something that could make it better?”

He insists again that there’s little he can do. He can’t bring back the people that died in the accident, or get the survivors to give up one detail that could reopen an investigation. He’s not police, a judge, all he can do is look over the details and decide that the claimant deserves a payout- which they’re getting, but it’s still frustrating, it doesn’t feel like enough, and he hates that the man that caused the accident has hardly paid for it. Likely doesn’t even feel guilty.

I’ll admit, this is a hard one. His job must suck. Shit, and I think I said that aloud. Not very comforting, right? “First of all, the fact that you care, that you obviously have spent time with these people, enough to get attached, is pretty impressive. Maybe this feels like a dead end, maybe what you've done is all you can do, but…”

I give him the best advice I can. What I might do. Honestly, the first thing I’d do is not take a job like this. I’d lose my mind. But that’s why I have to help him, at least try to make him feel better about this, because it may never have crossed my mind before but that kind of work would eat you alive if you had half a heart to begin with.

“Wow...actually, I never considered any of that. Thanks. I mean, really, thanks. You’re a hero. At least I’ll sleep tonight.” We shake hands, he pulls it into a hug. He’s emotional, worn out, I won’t make a big deal out of it. 

Thinking of Elliot, I do my best to disengage as soon as possible. He wasn’t wrong, the guy has a little thing for me and maybe soothing his conscience, giving him a little hope, could just fuel the fire. But the more we’ve casually talked in the halls, this second lengthy chat in the apartment, the more I hope he puts it aside. If we could just be friends…

“Oh, one more thing Charlie. Elliot and I are going out this weekend, as long as the case doesn’t get in the way, and we’d really like for you to join us. I’d love for you to meet a friend of mine, if you’re interested.”

“Are you trying to set me up?”

“Yes. Trust me. You won’t regret it.”

“Well, wouldn’t it be embarrassing if you misread me, Malcolm.” Charlie is obviously kidding around, or embarrassed himself. Still, since he’s ventured into the territory of hinting I might be wrong, I can’t help myself.

“That you’re single? Or interested in men? That you’re open to a relationship at all? It would be if there was the slightest chance I’m wrong. Which rarely ever happens. I’m one of the very best, and not above using my deductive skills outside of my work. Especially where my friends are concerned.”

“Alright, you got me. I’ll try to ignore the nagging feeling that you’ve profiled me as a sad loner.”

“Hmm, that’s one way to look at it.” I pause for effect, watching his reaction. He laughs. “Or I think you’re both decent guys that *happen* to be lonely, which is sad. Sympathy, not pity.”

He mimes an injury to the chest, slouching in his seat and clutching the lapel of his jacket. I resist telling him that, while amusing, the action looks nothing like a literal shot to the heart.


	5. I Want A Way Out Of Loneliness Just Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm sets Charlie up with an old boyfriend

If this guy is, was ever, "too similar" to Malcolm, someone has changed a lot. Even when we first met, Malcolm wasn't this...boring. There was a time when I would rather everyone around me be just too dull to bother interacting with. Saved me a lot of anxiety. At least his ex is definitely hitting it off with our creepy neighbor.

Ok, fuck, let me backup a bit here. We were in bed, and I was trying, really trying I swear, not to screw shit up for Mal and his new buddy. It’s been obvious to me from the second I saw that weirdo on the camera feed, listened to the way he talked to my boyfriend, what kind of sugar he really wanted. 

Fortunately, Mal can’t help but surprise me in all the right ways. From the moment I knew I was a sentient human with a brain like a fucking computer regular people have been surprising me. It’s almost always disappointing. I expect it. I don’t hate them for it. Not in the least. I envy them. I wish I could be dull and oblivious. At least, I always did. I wanted what everyone else had, and then Mal came along. 

Alright, again, my bad, friends. *I* came into Agent Bright’s life. At the end of my rope, with a hail mary play I was convinced would prevent the worst for most, but ultimately fuck me over, I contacted the authorities. 

Yep. Me. Elliot Alderson. I called in the feds. Holy shit right? The first and only time I thought I had just enough control over Mr. Robot to hold him down, keep him weak until we found ourselves in a secure room with just one (kinda junior looking) Agent Bright. I panicked, not knowing any other way to prove to them what I’d put on paper. 

The next stage of plans, the horrible possibilities, the shitty reality that I had no control of this thing I started and how many people were going to die. Never mind knowing I was losing the battle of control between my two selves. 

I let go. I let him out. He was so pissed off, tearing me down and beating the shit out of me. Of course, that’s not what it looked like to the FBI observers I knew were on the other side of that mirror. 

Malcolm had been different though. Malcolm couldn’t *see* Mr. Robot, but he knew he was there. He knew how to stop him, how to see him coming. I’ll never know exactly what it looks like but he swore after our first interview that he did. And his assignment had been to stay by my side, help me stop the other guy’s plans. He couldn’t always stop him surfacing, taking the wheel, but he could see it like almost no one else could. He helped my friends, my sister too, and along the way showed me something I knew deep down and tried like hell to ignore. My childhood best friend hadn’t been on my side. Fucking *why* Angela? 

Oh well, I still had Tyrell. Malcolm approved, asked him to help and secured safety for his child. It was too late to save Tyrell’s wife, but she’d been the one to build the foundation that Mr. Robot used. As opposed to using me to get to Mr. Robot, as Angela had been doing, Tyrell had been manipulated, maybe his whole life. Guess all three of us have that in common in various degrees. 

When the case closed, I had some friends still, my sister...and this guy. This guy that believed in me, saved me, and I’d been drawn to him the way I’d been to just a few people in my lifetime.

Of course the idea of losing him made me a little crazy. Of course the slightly crazed infatuation with him that Charlie had worried me.

Mal’s not stupid. He’s a genius. In a different way than myself but no less.

So there we were, lying in bed, yet another evening ruined by the sounds of Hard-Jerk next door. It was fucking funny for a few nights. Then awkward. Then fucking scary.

“So I was thinking,” Mal broke the silence in the room. I don’t know if he was waiting for Charlie to finish up, or it just took him that long to decide on a solution.

“I feel a brag coming.”

“Maybe. Listen, I used to go out with this guy-” He turns to me, grabbing my hand and dragging me out of bed. 

“Time to move the bedroom to the living room again?” The last time Charlie’s apartment had been occupied, the young couple there had complained about us. We were loud apparently. Half truth. Malcolm is loud. Doesn’t matter what we’re doing, who’s doing what to whom, he’s fucking loud. No complaints on my account of course. 

“Yes- but, that’s not what I’m trying to tell you.” I mime zipping it, he smirks while we strip his expensive matching sheet set off the bed. “So, I heard my ex is single again.”

“Facebook stalking? What did I tell you about that site?”

“Facebook is a deal breaker. I know. And no, you’d be surprised how much more an information leak the talk in my line of work is than any poorly programmed social media platform.” Mal is showing off a little, moving shit around and gently nudging me out of the way. That’s what six hours of planking a day will get you I guess. I know he does a hell of a lot more training than just that, but phrasing it that way always hilariously riles him.

“Not exactly, those apps are all programmed by people. Shitty, greedy people. This would be infinitely more efficient if we started with the living room furniture.” He sighs, laughs, and cranks the stereo volume up in his bedroom. We move to the living room. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I broke up with this guy? Or do you want a hint?” He’s kidding. And fishing. Even if I knew exactly where he was going, other than ‘probably feds shouldn’t date inside that pool’ I’d still let him have this one. I shrug which must’ve looked a bit like a shiver, since he pulls out one of the hoodies with my store’s logo on it. He puts me in it like a little kid. 

“Creepy how you’re still staring at my ass after that.”

“Harrison and I worked together, and he’s essentially my equal.” I don’t hide the disgust at the trendy name. “Yes, that’s a first name. Moving on. I think he and Charlie would really hit it off. We sort of look similar, we *are* pretty similar,”

“I’m starting to paint a picture here.” Mal smirks. Yeah, he’s trying to solve a problem, make me feel better, and sneak in a brag.

“He’s good looking and smart. The only problem we really had was he’s not quite as clever as myself.”

“You’re serious.” He is. I don’t need an answer. “I love you. Fine. I’ll even agree to a fucking double date if that’ll move this along.”

The fuck was waiting for me to say that too, obviously, since it’s been less than a week since that conversation and here we are. To his credit, Charlie and Harrison are really hitting it off. I don’t get it. The guy bears a passing resemblance to Malcolm but he pales in comparison in every other way. 

Fortunately, lonely sugar neighbor doesn’t see that. They’re already invading one another’s space, joking and laughing. Harrison plays a 2D version of Mal’s signature witty repartee and clever observations. He’s definitely a show off. To be fair, everyone at this table, maybe Charlie aside, is in a way.

Their first date ends early. Mal and I walk home.

By the time we settle in it doesn’t matter that the bed we’re collapsing into isn’t against the same wall as Charlie’s. “Holy shit, babe. He might be louder than you. I’m going to need to sample this and compare it before I officially declare your ex the loudest fuck ever but-”

“No doubt you can, and will, do that, but...can it wait?”

“You mean is that still awkward and distracting?” Mal sighs, kissing my cheek and getting ready for bed. Pulling him back, I remind him to pull from the bottom if he wants to get into my pants any time soon. “Are you up for a little friendly competition?”

“I’m going to assume you’re joking.”

“Of course. Kind of. I don’t give a shit if he’s murdering him in there, Charlie is getting his sugar fix somewhere else.” Mal chuckles, but he’s managed to get us both half naked. “So fuck me already.”


	6. Close To Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot is attacked by the copycat. Malcolm gets a message at the hospital while he waits for Elliot's release. (this chapter is by itslifethatscaresmetodeath)

I'm just barely out the door when I hear it open again. Gill's beside me in a second, out of breath from the short jog. I'm about to tease him, tell him he spends too much time at his desk but the look on his face stops me short. The way his hand rests on my shoulder - I've seen him do it a million times, always when he’s about to lay some heavy shit down. 

Bad news. 

My blood runs cold, what the hell could be worse than the shit he's already told me since this all began. If he didn't pull the 'comforting arm touch shit' when I had to go visit my father in the fucking asylum, I can't imagine - I don't want to and surprisingly *can’t* imagine - why he'd be doing it now.

"Just tell me."

"Elliot was attacked. He's being taken to the hospital-" I'm already pulling away when the hand on my shoulder grips tighter. "He's ok. But I'm gonna drive you..."

I nod my head, numb. Of all times for something like this to happen - wait. "Where?" I ask.

"Half a block from your apartment. You know what they say -"

"Yeah, I know what they say, Gill. Bad shit always happens when you're less than a mile from home...but not in my neighborhood."

Gill sighs, giving me a sympathetic look. He must think im panicking, desperate..."Malcolm -"

"No, Gill, not in my neighborhood. Check the stats. My fucking *mother* hand picked it because it has the lowest crime rate in all 5 boroughs. She was shocked as hell too, but it's true. It's the safest neighborhood in NYC. You're sure he's ok?"

"Yeah. Just a little beat up, nothing too serious. The mugger took his wallet, knocked him around a bit and took off."

"Take me there. Tell Elliot I'll be there as soon as I can. People don't get mugged in my neighborhood, Gill. Take me there, tell everyone to back off of processing the scene until I get a chance to see."

Gill hesitates but nods and tugs me toward his car, already on the phone giving orders. It's not even the first time I've felt grateful that the FBI canned me but I'm sure it's,more at this very moment than ever before. He turns on the lights and siren and we're there in minutes. 

As I'm getting out of the car, I see that responding officers are standing to the side, one woman gestures toward the alley and I precede quickly but with caution. A conflict of interest is something to consider and it's there at the back of my mind but if my feeling is right...

There's blood on the ground. Elliot's blood. I just stare at it for a moment until Gill snaps me out of it, handing me a pair of latex gloves. "Do this but do it right," he mutters. He's right. For maybe a second I question whether I'm compromised but it passes just as quickly. This may be close to home but I can do close to home. 

I'm right. I know I'm right. I just...feel it in my bones. Gill shines a light on the blood, there's a partial shoe print and I immediately recognize the familiar pattern. Chuck Taylor All-Stars. High tops. The same kind Elliot wears every single day but much larger. Gill sees it too. 

"10.5? 11 maybe?" He says, I nod and lay a marker down for the crime scene photographer. 

"It had to have happened quick, the alley is clear, no debris, nothing to shield the scene from pedestrians. There's some blood spatter here on the wall...consistent with Elliot's height." There's nothing else there, nothing that'll help anyway and i start off down the street, Gill on my heels. 

"You think he dumped the wallet?"

"Fits the usual pattern, take what you came for, ditch evidence that could implicate you later..." We scan the street, the gutters, every alleyway for 2 blocks and sure enough, there it is lying on the ground next to a dumpster. It looks almost as if it had be tossed casually, landed on the edge and tumbled over the side.

It looks that way because that's what fucking happened. 

I already know what I'm going to find after Gill takes a photo and gives me the go ahead to pick up the wallet. "What the fuck?" He says when we find nothing missing. Elliot's ID is still there, his insurance card, and the 43$ he'd been carrying. "They didn't take *anything*?" Gill sounds annoyed as I shake my head but then I realize that the ID card isn't tucked completely inside behind the clear plastic protector. 

"Unless..." I say it more to myself than anything as I slide the card out. There should be 2 photographs there, tucked behind it safe and sound - one of the kids (our furbabies) and one of Elliot and I last New Year's Eve. I love that photo, he looked so happy. His sister had taken it but more importantly, it signified the first time that he was truly able to conquer his anxiety and be in public. With me. Having fun.

Its gone.

The only thing missing from his wallet is a picture of us...close to home? Even closer than I thought.

"Talk to me, Malcom."

"Either one of us has a stalker, on top of all the other bullshit currently going on in our lives or it's him. Honestly, its wouldn't shock me, not with our luck. There's usually a photo here. Of us. It's the only thing he took."

***

I get to the hospital and have to stop outside the examination room when I see Elliot sitting on the table without his shirt. There are cuts and bruises everywhere. His face has been patched up, it looks as if he needed a stitch or two in his lower lip, the concentration of injuries on the left side of his face. Whoever hit him was right handed. 

"Malcolm Bright?" I turn to see a pretty young nurse with a kind smile standing at my side. Her voice is gentle, slightly accented and her dark brown eyes very warm. Her scrubs are pale pink and patterned with disney princesses, on her name tag, it says 'Theresa' and she has a modest silver cross dangling from a delicate chain around her neck. The only other piece of jewelry she's wearing is a diamond ring on her left hand. No wedding band yet - she had that glow of a woman who has recently gotten engaged. "You're Mr. Alderson's emergency contact. He's still being examined but you can go in if you like."

"Anything serious?" I ask, trying to fight the urge to keep profiling this woman. It's a habit, when I'm stressed, I fall back on what I know best...

"Just the usual, some scrapes, bruises. One laceration was serious enough to require stitches but the rest should heal if properly taken care of...right now Andrew - I mean Dr. Wallace - is trying to determine whether the ribs are fractured or just bruised. He'll likely order an xray to be on the safe side." Andrew? The way she says the name, looking down with a barely concealed smile - must be the fiance. The rock on her hand definitely suggests a doctor's salary...damn it, Malcolm. Quit it. 

"Concussion?"

"You really know your stuff..." She says, checking the chart on her clipboard. "Perhaps but its mild. Mr. Alderson refused an MRI but that's not standard procedure with the symptoms he's described. Do you want to see his chart? He gave us permission earlier." I nod and take it from her, scanning the information quickly until something catches my eye.

"What kind of sample are you sending to the lab?"

"Oh! He said he may have scratched his attacker during the assault so I scraped and trimmed his nails just in case. I've already sent them for DNA testing." I can't help but smile. 

"That was very thoughtful. Not many nurses or doctors would think to do that unless they're - " 

"Doing a rape kit? I know, but he mentioned it and I thought it might help down the road. Maybe not but at least I tried, right?"

"Thank you, Theresa." The nurse smiles, surprised, tilts her head then looks down at the front of her shirt - like, oh, yeah, he knows my name because its written right there in plain fucking English...its sad how few people bother to recognize these unsung heroes of the ER. 

"Thank you, Mr. Bright." Her smile is less bedside manner, genuine in a way that reaches her eyes as she opens the door for me.

Elliot looks up and almost smiles but the local anesthetic is wearing off and he must feel the stitches pull because he thinks better of it, his fingertips gingerly prodding the injury. I take his hand and lace our fingers together, giving it a squeeze as I try to apologize for the delay.

"Save it. You're here. I'm fine. You find anything interesting?" I laugh but it's humorless. "What? How bad?"

"Found your wallet. Nothing's gone but that picture Darlene took." He makes a face but every expression seems to aggravate one injury or another. "A couple blocks from the scene...What do you remember?" I hate asking anything of him at the moment, especially about the attack but the sooner the better with this kind of thing. 

He shrugs, winces as the doctor touches an especially tender area. "His face was covered. Most of it anyway. A bandana or something...he was tall. White. Blue eyes."

"How tall, do you think?" I ask. "Approximately." Elliot thinks about it for a second, closing his eyes. He lifts his hand, holding it out and slightly above his head. He makes a slight adjustment, squints, nods his head.

"6'. Maybe 6'1"," he says definitively. I smile, he never ceases to amaze me.

"He was white with blue eyes?"

"Yeah. White-white. Like nothing else in the gene pool but white people back to when they first existed." Even the doctor laughs at that one. 

"Ok. Did he say anything?" He shakes his head. "What was he wearing? Do you remember?"

"All black, head-to-toe. I know, with taste like that, we should be bros but maybe he thought i was infringing on his oh so original style. It was like kicking my own ass..."

It's a joke but I remember the shoe print in the alley. Elliot's are on the floor next to the bed and I give them a quick once over, checking for blood. Nope. As i expected. I know his shoe size but I'm being extra thorough. I do notice that the soles of his are pretty well-worn. The print the attacker left behind was crisp, like the shoes he was wearing were brand new. 

"What color were his shoes?"

"Black." 

"All black like yours or with white soles and laces?"

"All black...like mine." He looks a little panicked, likely thinking back to a much darker time in his life when kicking his own ass was hardly a joke. 

"You took your meds today. And this guy left behind a size 11 print in the alley. Mr. Robot wears your shoes, Elliot," I assure him and it takes a second but the logic starts to sink in and he calms down. The doctor clears his throat.

"I don't mean to interrupt but I've read your medical files. There is literally no way you could have done this to yourself, Elliot." I'm grateful because that's all Elliot needs to hear and we're back on track. I exchange a look with the doctor and he smiles sympathetically. Theresa enters the room with a cup of tea, helps Elliot hold it in his shaking hands as he takes a sip. 

There's no interaction between her and 'Andrew' but that makes it all the more obvious. I'd be pleased with myself under any other circumstances..."Does he need an xray?" I ask. 

"Yeah, I think that'll be best. I'm fairly certain the ribs are bruised but I'd feel better knowing for sure." Elliot nods and Theresa disappears, coming back a moment later with a wheelchair. I help him into it and ask if he needs me but he insists he'll be fine which is good because I need some air. The doctor gives me a quick recap and then I'm looking for the nearest exit, figuring I'll have more privacy on the roof.

My heart is pounding, adrenaline running through my veins. Once I'm outside, I take several deep breaths, gripping a railing tightly to ground myself. I close my eyes and start to count backwards but my mind is racing and it's hard to concentrate.

Too close. Too close to home. Way too fucking close. As bad as Elliot looked down there in the examination room, it could have been so, so much worse. And I'm almost positive that was the intent. For me to know that I - that *we* - got off easy. This time. 

Because that can happen in this line of work. It can get personal and shit can and likely will escalate. Quickly. He could have killed him there. But he didn't. This whole case has been a total mindfuck and to think it wasn't personal would have been insane but this whole incident really drives the point home. 

Someone is out there, recreating my father's murders, not out of some sick obsession with Dr Whitley's work...but because of me. They wanted my attention...and they have it. They know about Elliot, they know his schedule, they know where we live...

Maybe we should go stay with mom, or maybe step away from the case all together, or maybe - I don't get the chance to finish that thought, there's just pain, some brief confusion as I realize I'm suddenly on the ground. I touch the back of my head, my fingers come away sticky and red and I can't get my eyes to focus. There's a large, dark figure looming over me and I'm angry. I want to demand why, what did I do to deserve this shit being dredged up again? I want to tell them all the things I'll do to them if they even thing of touching Elliot again...but I can't.

I can’t get my brain to sync up with my mouth at all or summon the strength to do anything at all, even as the figure moves closer. For a moment, I wonder if this is it, was this what he wanted, was this the endgame but an inexplicable calm washes over me. Almost like...some strange sense of familiarity? I feel a sharp prick on the side of my neck and that's it. I have just enough time to feel numb before the whole world goes dark.

****

The woman is small but she fights like hell from the moment I get my hands on her. I'd been careful, so very careful to avoid injuries I wouldn't be able to easily explain when I attacked Elliot (I walked away from that with nothing more than a literal fucking scratch - pathetic) but this time, I know I'll just be lucky to get away without any broken bones. 

I just need to avoid the worst of it until she tires herself out which is inevitable. I'm bigger than she is. Stronger. And I don't care how many self defense classes she's taken, she's already panicked, scrambling for the slightest advantage, unaware that it was already over before it began...

I almost feel sorry for her. It's nothing personal, really, not even after she bites down on my hand hard enough to draw blood. I keep quiet, keep calm and adjust my hold on her to keep her as still as possible so I can put an end to this. With my arm around her throat, she's getting weaker much more quickly and I'm able to retrieve the needle from my pocket.

"Shhh," I whisper. Whether it's a warning or a request, I don't know or really care. It'll be easier on both of us in the long run so either way, it's entirely in her best interest. The needle pierces her hip, she tries to struggle once more, but it's over quickly from there without much more fuss. Good thing, too. I don't have much time to work.

Normally, I have hours to get the details just right but with Malcolm unconscious in the next bed over and only an approximate estimate of how much longer he'll remain that way, I feel rushed. Not really in a bad way, surprisingly. It feels somehow *right* to have him present, even in this passive state. The only word that comes to mind is... 'serendipitous'. 

Unfortunately, time really is of the essence so I get to work as soon as her pulse stops, pulling on one of the protective smocks that surgeons and nurses wear in the OR. This would have been useful to him a long time ago...but you live and you learn, right?

***

The first thing I'm aware of is the dull pain radiating from the back of my skull. As dimly lit room as the room is, it does little to ease the pain as I slowly attempt to sit up. Vertigo hits as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and I close my eyes tight, wait for it to pass. What the fuck? Where am - 

I remember Gill telling me Elliot had been attacked, that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach only made worse as my suspicions were confirmed. I remember the familiar tightening in my chest, the desperation for open space and fresh air. I remember the panic and frustration and anger as I paced the roof. 

The roof.

I touch the back of my head, feeling a bandage where last I checked had been a gushing wound. I'm fairly pissed off at the idea of someone getting the drop on me in any situation but - ow! 

"*Fuck*."

I'd inadvertently clenched my hands into fists, and like a reminder from the universe itself to watch my temper, I felt a sharp pain in the palm of my left hand. I release the offending object, opening my eyes...and immediately wish I hadn't.

Because on the floor at my feet is a single blood red rose and the photograph that had been stolen from Elliot's wallet. Well...half of it at least. I reach down to pick it up and realize it's been torn down the center. I quickly look around my immediate area but I already know what I'm looking for isn't there. The half in my hand just looks so wrong, I can't imagine ever looking that happy without Elliot there beside me...well, if I'd had any doubts before...

And suddenly all I can think about is how I'm here - wherever 'here' is - and he's still at the hospital, alone, and in danger. *Fuck*. I try to calm myself, prioritize my thoughts. I'm no good to him panicking like an idiot. There are questions that need answers before I can protect him. First things first - where the fuck am I?

I take another look around, the room is in disarray and my eyes still don't really want to focus properly. I close them and take a deep breath in through my nose - wait. I know that smell. I'm a neat freak, clean is my favorite smell but this is too much. It's beyond clean. Almost...sterile.

When I take another look at the room, it's clear. I'm still in the hospital. The curtain that divides the room is pulled, the only light coming from the other side, giving everything a sickly yellow tone. Finally, I realize that the cloth isn't patterned. It's stained. And the 'pattern' of those stains is all too familiar. 

I slowly get to my feet and take a step toward the curtain, my hand reaching out almost on its own volition. My fingers grip the fabric and I start to pull it back slowly. I don't want to. I *really* don't want to but I can't stop myself.

The blood staining the curtain was incredibly misleading compared to the scene it had concealed. It's the copycat, I know it is but...well, it feels strange and morbidly defensive but my father never made this much of a...mess. Even with a head wound, I begin processing the scene, wondering how the hell we're going to identify this poor person...then my eyes land on a damning, heartbreaking clue. A plastic name tag sits, oddly undisturbed in the center of a sizable pool of blood. 

Theresa. 

Most of the body is covered in a bloody sheet but the right leg and left arm are dangling over the sides of the bed. Everything else falls into place - I recognize snow white printed on blood soaked fabric, the princess cut diamond engagement ring still on her finger...against my better judgement, I pull back the sheet and there's the kind young nurse who'd taken such good care of Elliot staring back at me.


	7. The Rest Of Our Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm's birthday. Charlie and his boyfriend get close.

Malcolm’s birthday is in just a few days. Depending on who you ask, the people that love him most have been planning the perfect day for weeks. Personally I’d like a quiet evening in but there’s no way that’s happening. He’s offered. I know how difficult that would be, talking his mom out of her- *the* grand evening. 

In spite of the generous offer, Mal has made his own little plans. Somehow they all involve me. Not in the sexy way either. At least I don’t think so, trying not to catch my reflection as I walk through the hallway to meet him in the kitchen. He’s ‘doing dinner’- I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the take-out menu drawer. Yes we have a designated drawer for those, neither of us are free or qualified to cook most of the time.

“Nothing makes a man feel welcomed to the family like having his clothes chosen for him. Who’s idea was this eggplant disaster and do I really have to wear it?” My boyfriend holds up a hand, signalling what I can already hear. He’s making our order. 

Normally I’d be fucking ecstatic to know that he’s about to partake in good ole delicious empty calories. He’s not a health nut, per se, but I often get a side-eye for my dietary choices. It’s not even food, he’s told me. Most days he’s eating sushi, lean proteins, all that shit. Fueling his body as carefully as he trains it. The case and the added pressures of the Whitley clan grabbing hold of an opportunity to plan every minute of his birthday means that he’s slacking just a bit. Probably still woke up four hours early to work out today. Not that I’m complaining. 

Just when I realize the son of a bitch is staring like I’m on the menu, he hangs up and answers. “After careful consideration, I picked the color and the suit. I was right, it’s perfect.”

“Yeah, you sure know my measurements.” I get a deadpan ‘no shit’ look for the comment. He must have a lot on his mind if the double entendre was lost on him. He’s tidying the drawer full of menus, some other odds and ends, which he refers to as the ‘junk drawer’ with a self congratulatory smirk. Every time. 

“Ah! Oh, yes...it’s a perfect fit. Damn it. I missed my chance for that one didn’t I?” The absent minded genius. What a pair. “I must have used up my wit for the day talking mother down to a smaller affair.”

***

Find a time machine and ask me a couple of months ago what I’d be doing the week of my boyfriend’s birthday. It sure as fuck wouldn’t be knocking on Charlie’s door. Let alone inviting Harrison, Mal’s ex, when he answers first. 

They’re pretty well matched. So in sync it’s freakish. I remind myself to rewind the feed of the tiny cameras I’d installed in our hallway, find the exact perfect angle and moment where they catch what I’m seeing now. Darlene would get a kick out of this. 

Harrison’s holster is hanging from one hand while he steps out of a nice, but scuffed pair of shoes. Word is he got a promotion at the FBI recently. Charlie’s back is to the door. He’s toeing out of his shoes while hunched over a tablet in one of his big hands. He bangs his knee on their kitchen countertop as Harrison (never Harry or any variation unfortunately) nearly walks headfirst into me. “Yes, Elliot?”

“What’s cooking?” The agent does a double take, tilts his head and sniffs. I literally have time to watch the moment of realization hit him. 

“Still trying to figure that out, actually.” Charlie responds, slightly lifting the tablet as if I can see what he’s looking at from this distance. It’d take an absolute moron not to know it’s an online recipe.

Shit. They’re a disaster. Babe was right though. Perfect for each other. And his ex is definitely not as bright (ha) as he is. There’s a bottle of champagne on ice set on a tray in the living area, which looks nice enough to suggest that a salary increase came along with that promotion. The apartment redesign helps that theory. 

I may also have been monitoring their browser history. For a couple of one note dorks it’s...interesting. Now I know for sure which one is taking a cooking course. Live lessons. Kind of stupidly pricey. I could score a free membership for him with a few keystrokes. There’s just a ton of good reasons why I won’t. Even Mal calls his ex ‘a stickler’ for the rules. My boyfriend knows I haven’t gone completely straight, as it were, and just doesn’t ask.

They have an Instagram, mutual account. It’s the backgrounds of the photos that put the story together, it’s always the little details anyone else would ignore that mean the most. The grinning selfies, that one weekend out of the city, and lately the obnoxious photos of their dinner disasters. In the background it’s easy to see who is slightly more competent; Charlie’s case files are always closed on the desk behind him or just peeking out of a well-worn briefcase. 

Harrison might just be too proud of his progress in the agency to think of it, but I’ve seen more than one photo where the full license number of the SUV he takes in to the office is clear in the background. A few others tagged ‘missing him already’ showing the address of the apartment building as Charlie drives away for a case out of town. A few more with the number on their door after an evening out. Basic stuff dude. At least I feel like it should be.

I’ve built a new respect for the insurance adjustor. He’s dull, but decent. If I remove myself from the personal shit, the obscenely obvious flirting with Malcolm was just a lonely guy with a fairly specific type. He’d settled with the imitation, happily from the looks.

A while back, as hard as it still is to accept, Kraken had gotten out into the hallway. I had made two or three trips that day with supplies for the store and some seriously fucked equipment I’d need to personally repair over a long evening at home. Back and forth. I’d checked the tapes and never saw the moment, but it must’ve been my fault. Mal’s heart would be broken. He’d been so hesitant to adopt a therapy animal, and now we refer to Flipper and Kraken as ‘our furbabies’. I almost lost his baby. 

Charlie knocked on our door just as we’d run out of the ‘usual hiding places’. He’d found Mal’s baby wandering in the hall, had kept him safe in his apartment. He’d apologized for not coming over sooner, sheepishly admitting that he must not have heard us arrive, being too busy failing to coax the cat out from under his bed. I owed him.

Fuck. Catch up. They’re staring. “Shit, right. I came to invite you both to Mal’s birthday party. His mother was trying to make it this *huge* deal, so it’d be cool to have actual friends there.” Harrison gives me a knowing smirk. “I think he talked her down from a complete circus. It’s Friday night. Not his actual birthday but that’s a bonus for all.”

“Friday night works.” The couple almost responds in unison. Fuck me. Must text Darlene ASAP.

***

Malcolm *will* be punished for this. Probably. The party, the suit, all that shit was part of a bigger plan. Before him, I couldn’t even leave my apartment if I thought social interaction was inevitable. It was a miracle if I showed up.

The bastard proposed. I didn’t even think about other friends at the time, or my sister, anyone I knew that had ever been thrust into this exact scenario and what I thought of the people responsible. 

Get this. I was really, really, fucking happy. So blissfully unaware of friends and family watching that I sort of- definitely- soaked in the moment. This is what love is. As if he hadn’t erased all doubts a long time ago. 

His mother cries. Our sisters both try like hell not to. I know that look on Darlene’s face. It hasn’t changed in her entire life. The only guest I’d expect to be slightly annoyed by the whole thing is Tyrell, but when I risk a glance in his direction he’s just making his little son (named after me but spelt differently) clap along with the rest of the guests. 

Nothing much matters after that. I know we leave early, and that I can barely focus on anything aside from how stupid excited I am. My life hasn’t presented a lot of fucking guarantees, stability rarely being part of my vocabulary unless we’re talking technology.

I remember asking on the way home if he’d had a good birthday. His answer, that I said yes, would be cheesy if it were coming from almost anyone else.

***

“Can you please keep it down?” I’d beg if it’d do any good. 

We’re not fighting. Of course we’re not. We never do, never have. Honestly, genuinely, we clicked from the moment we’d met. This could have worked. If one of us were different. 

That may not be a comfort. It’s definitely a screwed up thing to say. There’s just no stopping this, no going back. I can’t change who I am. 

My boyfriend of the last few months laughs. We’re a little drunk. He doesn’t handle his liquor very well. I wonder if that factored in to Malcolm’s decision to leave him. Not a subject anyone brings up often; how long they dated, why they split. 

Malcolm’s *fiance* knows. I can see it in the way he looks at this man. So similar, but not quite measuring up. Elliot pities him.

“You’re lost,” Harrison chuckles, stumbles. He’s short, slight, and trained to hold off a guy twice his size. He just doesn’t try as I grip his upper arm, forcing him to turn away from the crowd spilling out of the bar. “Where are we going?”

“I have a surprise for you. Trying to ruin it?” That seems to work for the moment. It’s a silent, romantic stroll for a while. I picture Malcolm, the light in his clever eyes, affection so intense the entire crowd could feel it. I know his nights are still haunted with the terror of becoming what he’s been chasing his entire life. I know how it feels to wait for a monster to creep out of the darkness. I’ll never know the satisfaction of closure, but I’ll be sure he does.

“Charlie,” he grumbles, sobering up a little. Not ideal. “Seriously, if your ‘surprise’ is any further we shouldn’t walk it. Not this late.” Right. Bad neighborhood. I won’t be taking him all the way. No one but Malcolm will ever get to see the final clue, the pieces of the puzzle coming together. The carefully arranged and preserved missing parts of the victims. I’m sure by now he’s waiting to stumble upon it, just like he did all those years ago. 

It’s taken so much energy, such careful planning, to arrange the murders. To learn to take a body apart with the same surgical precision Mr. Whitley had. I didn’t have the training. I didn’t have the time.

And then *tonight* had thrown me off balance. I felt rushed, frightened, and saw all at once where I’d been going wrong. The attack on his boyfriend, *fiance* now, brought us too close together when I made my way to the hospital. I was too hasty. I’m still kicking myself, not sure what I intended to do but a fucking mugging didn’t follow the pattern. And then there he was, looking lost and panicking while he waited. I just wanted to comfort him, almost revealed myself. Stupid fucking mistakes. Now I’d need a misdirection, a distraction, until I could get back on track. This one act should be enough. 

“Shut up. This will all be worth it. Thank you.” I whisper into Harrison’s ear, pressing him against the grimey wall in the alley. There’s no sign of apartments above us, and I already know this building was one of many failed attempts to put life back into this neighborhood. Another failed business. Call it underground crime, call it an accident, little effort was put into investigating the cause of the fire that spread to several buildings before the fire department even arrived. Not one casualty, bank accounts aside. 

“Charlie, what the fuck?” He’s reaching for his gun on instinct but it’s not there. He left it at home, off duty and feeling like he deserved the break. They’d been working hard. On what I didn’t know. Not the Surgeon’s copycat, which seems odd considering the clash of authority in big cases like this. He tries to counter the hold I have on him, too confident when he feels my grip loosen. I’ve got the upper hand, he must think. “Back off and tell me what the *fuck* you think you’re doing.”

“I wish I could tell you. I really do. It wouldn’t matter though. All I can do is make it easy on you.” He’s got the wrong idea. I can tell when he spins around. A little alcohol in his system, and my sudden change in behavior, he never noticed the slight pinch of the injection. I swear I hadn’t planned this tonight. After the frequency of the last few murders, Malcolm deserved a night off. Especially his birthday. 

Even leaving the house with the syringe was stupid, I know, but obviously serendipitous. Most of the time I’m better prepared. “Charlie?” 

Harrison drops right where he’d been standing, none too gently. I’m able to drag him into one of the abandoned buildings, improvising a little but my experience makes the process possible with the instruments I have on hand. 

He’d resembled Malcolm just enough that it’s not easy looking at his lifeless features. I turn him over before I begin segmenting the body. I’ll certainly leave the head for identification, again far away from the scene. A mental checklist tells me what I need to remove and preserve quickly for the collection. That means tearing into the body cavity. Not always a necessity, even for the original serial murders.

I’m pissed off, inconvenienced, and tired. But this more than anything has to be done just right. I can’t deviate in the slightest from the pattern. Remember to leave enough of the body for the investigators to rule out all other possibilities. Take extra care not to sterilize the remains and the scene so much that there’s no evidence of myself. After all, we’d been dating for a few months now, we shared an apartment. If anything, I should be all over him. 

***

“Of course you can see it,” Charlie looks thin, paler if that’s possible. His eyes dart between myself and the officer I brought along to take his statement and collect any evidence. In this case, that means my neighbor’s personal cell phone. 

Correction. My neighbor and friend, who had been a nervous wreck for days now. Charlie showed genuine concern for myself and my standing in the NYPD when he asked how he could find out if his boyfriend had disappeared on some official order. An agent in the FBI wouldn’t be known as such if they were involved in undercover operations. A fact I could tell him without violating any oath, offering any privileged information. That was a fact you could confirm with a Google search. 

The kind of work his boyfriend did, they’d notify family, then friends or romantic partners if an agent was gravely injured or killed on duty. 

He’d responded by confessing that they’d argued the last night he’d seen him. Harrison never came home. That opened dozens of possible horrific scenarios. I hated to press it, but I had to ask what the fight was about. He couldn’t remember, Charlie had sworn, voice muffled with his head in his hands. 

“It was stupid. Whatever it was, it was stupid. We were both drunk so it must have been.” The blond explains again, responding the same way he had sitting in my apartment. I make a note, I’ll personally share that detail to my superior and to Harrison’s after this part of the process is finished. He opens the text history between himself and his missing boyfriend as he hands the device over. Half a dozen messages between that night and the next morning sent from Charlie, no reply. Many more spaced out over the days between then and now. 

“I’m sorry,” he holds in a breath when I lay a hand on his arm. “He was found this morning.” He opens his mouth to respond, I can see him trying to form words out of the denial and shock he must be feeling. He sways, and I try to talk him through staying on his feet as I guide him by the hand to the nearest chair in his apartment. He tenses, rambles while he futilely attempts to jump out of the seat.

Fuck. It was *his*. As irrational as the response sounds, it’s common in times of grief to revere and try to preserve a lost loved one’s belongings and spaces they’d habitually occupied. 

“When can I see him?” 

“Charlie, look…” the officer accompanying me begins. I gesture for him to finish up, and shut the fuck up. 

“Charlie, you don’t want to do that. Even if that would somehow help, and I promise it won’t, it’s unlikely you’ll ever have the chance.” I can’t officially declare it, nor should I, though I’m sure even in this state Charlie knows exactly what’s happened. I can’t let my emotions get in the way. A bit hypocritical considering how I reacted to the attack on Elliot. Just the same, I can’t help but feel guilty. At this point, victims close to home have become a pattern. I have to accept that this copycat is murdering specifically to get my attention, perhaps my father’s attention through me.

As morbid as it’ll sound, I feel like the latest victim has brought me so fucking close to the answer. I keep that to myself, as well as the gruesome details. The truth is that when I stepped back, looked at the whole picture instead of what looked like another perfect replication of my father’s M.O., I put together more evidence of a killer losing control. It’s not uncommon for these types of criminals to slip, to make what looks like a mistake. Most of the time they want to be caught. Maybe they’re looking for praise at creativity or a lengthy cat and mouse game. Maybe they truly believe the victims deserve to die and they want the media or the law to justify and support those beliefs in some way. They’re delusional. 

Some are just sick. As much as it pisses me off I’ve gone back and forth on those theories. The more personal it gets, though, the more I think there’s a very selfish agenda here. No grand complex. The killer is sending a message. To me. It feels wrong to even consider it, but it’s possible the focus of the fixation that led someone to copy my father’s crimes, is an obsession with myself or the family in some way. 

The attack on Elliot. It was sloppy, rushed, and too close with the clear message left for myself in the hospital. Uncharacteristically personal. That’s one thing my father wasn’t. He valued the experiments, the experience. If the anatomy was unique, if a new method of dissection or preservation came to mind, he took a victim. Never would he ruin a specimen the way this copycat had just done. 

The basics were there, but the body was butchered and damaged, mostly discarded. Yes, some ‘pieces’ were missing. No doubt I’d find those well preserved with the others when we tracked this bastard down. But the head and torso weren’t neatly separated, instead torn at the weakest points. The midsection was splayed open and severely damaged. There was no chance in neatly sewing it back together like the victims usually were. No attempt at slowing decay, leaving the victim’s remains dressed or posed as if they’d just moments ago been going about their daily routine. 

All things to consider. Later. 

“I understand.” I know Charlie doesn’t have anyone to turn to, no family back west where he’s from. It’s a conflict of interest but I make him look me in the eye as I promise him that we’re *right there* for him. A sniffle, a weak nod. He squeezes my hand, then insists that the apartment is open to us if it’ll help in any way. “Once you’re done, I’d like a little time alone.”

***


	8. Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The copycat's final victim is taken.

I put Tyrell to work as soon as he arrived in New York. He needs to stay busy just as much as I do. Sure, he’s got other little ventures, or he could. But I know he’ll drop everything for me if I ask. 

I’m not fishing, or flirting. It probably sounds that way. There’s just some shit that you can’t tackle in a romantic relationship. A useful tip that saves everyone's sanity. I always thought I had a best friend but there’s nothing like Tyrell Wellick giving an actual shit about you to prove that maybe no one can ever love you as *intensely* as he can. Saying that aloud would practically burst his ego, so I try not to. If I ever catch myself sharing that aloud in his presence I’ll remember to follow immediately with ‘that is why we can’t date’, but I doubt that factor is lost on him or really holds weight in the grand scheme of it. 

Pretty sure...no, alright, I confess, I’m *positive* we have more data on Harrison’s death than Mal does before he officially confirms it. I would add that myself and a few pals know the identity of the most recent victim before his emotional wreck of a boyfriend does, but Charlie isn’t universally clear. 

I won’t bother him with it, but I think Mal still wonders. He was open to the possibility after I was ‘mugged’, at least admitting that the description did fit (basic and generic as it was). Additional factors add up, yet there’s never shit to prove shit one way or the other. 

The old gang has been showing up pretty regularly for moral support. The day Mal gets called in before fucking dawn, I shoot an emergency mass text out instead of going back to bed. 

Let me set the scene for you. What’s left of fsociety, scattered around my apartment, reviewing witness comments and video clips, verifying facts with NYPD emails and personal notes. Everything gets backed up digitally these days. 

Darlene blurts out a few ‘I totally fucked a murderous lunatic’ anecdotes. My sister’s idea of ‘a funny story’ is almost always filed under ‘shit Elliot was never meant to hear’. “Check for: it’s always the lover.” Trenton tries to joke, lighten the mood. The fact that she’s dating my sister only supports the theory. 

Someone matches a gruesome photo of a murder scene with face recognition software. Proof that average people would rather share these images with anonymous losers on popular message boards than turn them into the authorities. The majority of that shit wouldn’t actually assist the case, not that stopping a murder ranked as high as temporary cred among internet trolls. Nothing new. 

This is the shit Malcolm walks in on. He’s more than a little miffed, and I know it’s not aimed at us. Assigning the guy that has a connection to both the victim and the boyfriend to personally deliver the news? No one is surprised that they’d done it. Still shitty. He sighs, falls into an open spot on the nest of pillows we’d arranged that morning. 

“So, that sucked.” 

***

The next victim fits the M.O. perfectly. Another one a few weeks after that sets the pace and pattern back to normal. I should be relieved, refreshed, something. The usual spark isn’t there now, I’m just on edge. 

I should be planning a wedding, defying mother’s meddling suggestions, trying to fit in honeymoon plans. It’s definitely what I *want* to be doing. 

The disappointing reality is that the case is burying me and everyone I give a shit about in so much evidence that it’s becoming impossible to solve. Nothing adds up. The most sane moments on this case are the days I reluctantly visit my father. Despite his unnerving enthusiasm, near pride at the thought that someone is out there continuing his insane ‘work’, at least he’s able to explain a few inconsistencies for us. The deviation from the pattern, the personal attacks, he’s nearly fuming at the thought. 

“So, these are personal attacks.” 

“Hmm, probably always have been. What a narrow mind this individual must have.” I almost thank him the day he concludes, somewhat apologetically, that there was never any way his hopes for my future had come to pass. I stop him in the middle of a tangent on how the copycat pales in comparison to our intellects. 

“Something helpful. I’m demanding it now. Or these visits end today. No more stalling. We both know you’re holding back.” I try not to catch that look of nostalgic pride a parent gets when you’re unwittingly behaving exactly as they remember a smaller version of you acting. Mother always forgets that I’m not a child anymore, that our struggles aren’t cute and she won’t win this one because she’s the adult who knows best. Resting on those factors barely worked when I was a kid. 

It sends chills up my spine to see that my father’s expression holds an equal amount of respect for my resolve. He takes my word for what it is, values an intellectual rival. His perception of me isn’t warped by the usual filters a parent will always view their child through. Good or bad, I can only partially attribute this to madness. The rest is simply one genius mind recognizing another. That’s ok, I remind myself. That doesn’t make us the same.

# “You must be your father’s greatest disappointment,” Elliot had said when we’d first met. He had plenty more to say on the subject, an answer for every sign I believed pointed in the opposite direction. 

“I think like him, like *them*,” I’d argued. 

“Yeah, and you choose to catch them, to stop them. You could just...do it, and get away with it. Couldn’t you? You could kill, spin it so you never even had to hide it. So you believed it too. Or just quietly get away with it. Literally get away with murder. But you don’t. Yeah, I bet your dad sits in that cell, too ashamed to look the other convicts in the eye-”

“He’s in solitary. One guard inside.”

“Ok, so he sits there, trying to get the poor sucker on duty to talk to him, make him feel better or some shit. Like, ‘hey man, my kid is such a let down. There’s no regret like wasting-’ what was it, you were like 10, 12?- ‘wasting about a decade on a fricken prodigy...and he decides to be a fucking fed. Doesn’t call me or visit either.’ You don’t right?”

“No.” 

“Maybe, if you can’t shake this shit you...should. Or don’t. I wouldn’t if I had the choice. Scratch that, I really don’t know how I’d do it all over again. I’ll say that meeting Mr. Robot helped prove to me what Elliot is not. Way more valuable than knowing what you are. Figure out what you *aren’t*.”

Essentially, we’d locked Mr. Robot up and Elliot was content to live every day since knowing that a part of himself was sadistic and evil. That *thing* made up a part of him. He couldn’t erase it, wouldn’t choose to. Call it fucked up but that’s exactly how and why I fell for him.#

“Alright, dad, I’m here to pick your brain. I’m working with you this time. That’s the best and only option you’ve got.” 

“Option to…?”

“Not be disappointed. Be able to claim you had some lasting influence on your only son.” Holy shit Elliot was right. Dr. Whitley looks at the guard standing silent in the corner, clearly wondering if we’d spoken about their conversations. We didn’t have to, he wasn’t the first, certainly wouldn’t be the last to hear my father’s confessions. 

The old man looks calm, sane, meets my eyes and I can see a glimmer of hope. It’s battered, jaded, and he knows that once I leave the moment is over. “Tell me everything, son.” 

***

“Shit.” 

“Yes, I know. It’s...unfortunate that it has to be you. But it has to be.” 

My vision is blurry, my head is fucking pounding, but in spite of it all I know that voice. Every piece of the puzzle comes together. I usually live for that shit, a picture out of a billion fragments. Not a pleasant surprise. 

“Ok asshole, this is definitely a deviation from the pattern. Oh, P.S., Malcolm is not fucking impressed.” Charlie looms over me, pulling the ratchet straps over each of my wrists a bit tighter. He takes a fistful of my hair to hold my head against the metal slab beneath me, looping another strap around my forehead. That one isn’t so tight that I can’t turn my head slightly, watch him calmly pace around the brightly lit room. 

“Don’t do this, Elliot.” His tone is wrong, his words are rushed and whispered. I doubt he’s worried about the neighbors overhearing us. He’s panicked, spinning out of control. Do I keep poking holes in his logic? Shouldn’t it be enough that I’m conscious and aware. 

“I’m not even fucking numb.” Another strap around my waist. Still no sign of the drugs he’s consistently used, even for the messiest of scenes the police had been positive all the victims were overdosed on the same signature chemical Dr. Whitley had used. Practically instant. Probably painless, unless they saw him coming. That nurse had fought, but even then she wasn’t made to suffer long. “Some fanboy. This is all wrong.”

“You think I’m a *fan* of the Surgeon? The *reason* why Malcolm wakes up screaming?” Just when you think it can’t get weirder. I see the shine of what I hope isn’t a scalpel in his hand when he unzips my hoodie. 

“Now I don’t. The least you can do is explain yourself. ‘Cause wanting to fuck Malcolm no longer excuses the creep factor buddy.” The jars half full of a sickly pale liquid lined up on a nearby table up the ante. There’s no doubt this is the copycat. Again, except for the fact that I’m fully fucking awake. “If you think you’re somehow being a pal, he’s with his dad today, trying like hell to put this to rest. Feeling like shit about it. I’ve never seen him this defeated. Visiting the old man sure isn’t helping though.”

“Shut! Up!” It’s the first time he cuts me, two slashes over the oval shaped scar of a bullet wound. It’s bleeding like a bitch and I try not to laugh at the absurdity. If he only knew. He cuts me deeper, taking some care not to nick anything vital I think. Malcolm had said the killer knew his shit but likely was not trained in the medical field. Respect, Charlie is intelligent. He’s taught himself. Had time to learn anatomy with corpses. 

“No. That’s obviously not what you want. So talk to me, Charlie. Reveal the big convoluted plan.”

He bites down on the inside of his cheek, I can see it happen, see the temporary clarity he finds in the pain. For a while it’s quiet enough to make me a bit jumpy. Very unlike a horror movie psycho or a bond villain, Charlie is startled by my reactions to every echo and creak in the building. Every time he leaves my side to retrieve a different blade the scrape of metal on metal startles me more than the pain has so far. The soles of his shoes scuffing on the concrete floor make a uniquely horrible sound. 

At some point he’s slashed and torn at my arms and torso enough that my tshirt and hoodie are shreds. He tugs them out from under my body and the restraints, tossing them into a barrel in the corner of the room. At least I know most of my parts won’t end up in a flaming trash can. Just some of my comfiest clothes. 

***

My father and I didn’t bond over the personal details he demanded. I don’t think he was interested once he knew that a killer was duplicating his crimes for petty personal reasons. The only emotion we shared was varying degrees of shame in not seeing the obvious connections. It had all been personal from the beginning. 

Dr. Whitley’s greatest shame was his prodigal son, who chose to follow his own path, use the brilliant mind he’d inherited, and the example that had been set, to solve crimes. Malcolm Bright’s greatest regret was not stopping his own father soon enough. As Elliot had said so many times, it was pointless to blame himself. Eventually, he believed that. Still, there was the nagging feeling that he’d been defeated in a game he never knew he was playing. Another feeling all too familiar to his fiance. 

The Surgeon, now just another number in a jumpsuit, suggested that the copycat had found himself in a decent job but allowed it to get personal, taking his duties to heart. The guy definitely had a history of being just a little too late to mete out justice. It had started early in life. 

I could work from there. The guy was raised by a sick fuck. The difference between myself and the suspect was that he’d known and been helpless, where I believed I should have known, could’ve saved others from suffering, and didn’t. 

Charlie. He had been fixated on me, though it may not have begun as a typical attraction. We’d had more than enough conversations for me to envision his childhood long before he ‘opened up’. A cruel parent, dead long before he thought to seek any closure. Slightly ocd habits he didn’t know well enough to downplay regardless of where he was or who he was with. The sound of his voice when he spoke of home, the detached way he joined in when someone referenced the 80s and 90s. 

One night he’d finally opened up. A pointlessly cruel parent, years living in fear, waiting for something to happen. It was never the same, but at some point the pain didn’t matter. It was the hours in between, the waiting, the shit he missed out on. Why he never fought back still haunting him. The casual way he concluded that I must understand. It was only fair that I agreed, by that time feeling like we were close enough friends to confess I’d already profiled him. 

I didn’t share my opinion that he and Elliot had a lot in common, those stories weren’t mine to tell. Elliot had long ago stopped lying to himself, stopped sparing others his baggage. Not that he went out of his way, or complained. 

Relaying my best guess of the general area Charlie would be operating out of straight to Gil, I let him handle the details. I tell myself I’ll be there first anyway, because I have to be. I’m the only person alive that can get through to the suspect now. I don’t bother checking the voicemails that I see have filled my inbox in just a couple of hours. There’s a call from every one of Elliot’s friends, not so much as a text from him. 

***

Entering the building I keep my hands slightly raised away from my body, not quite in the universal gesture of surrender. “Elliot?” I swear I heard him from outside, hope it’s not wishful thinking, my mind playing tricks on me. “Charlie?” His car is parked in plain view at a side entrance. He would have brought Elliot in from that point, moved through the building on a path he was familiar with, could make his way out another exit if he heard anyone coming. 

“Malcolm?” Not the voice I want to hear first, but it’s calm enough. Charlie appears around the corner, filling up an open doorway. The bright light behind him is encouraging. I’m not liking the muffled sounds filling the silence, twisting Charlie’s blank expression into a tense frown. His eyes dart wildly as he begins to apologize. “I sincerely did not want you to find out this way. It’s not at all what it must seem like.” His body still blocks the entrance, but I can see by subtle movements that he hears something I can’t at this distance.

“Charlie, I *know*. Everything. If you move out of the way and let me see him, we can keep talking.”

Reluctantly he backs up into the room until I can see the examination table. There’s blood, a lot of it, but Elliot is struggling against the straps holding him there. The sound of his breathing tells me he’s in a lot of pain, has been drifting in and out of consciousness. The movement isn’t doing him any favors, nor are the attempts to speak. 

“Mal. Charlie…is-” 

“I know sweetheart, I know. I’m here now, you’re going to be alright.” The big guy has the advantage of size, weight, and familiar territory. I have so much more. “Charlie, I need to check his wounds. You’re going to let me. I understand. I get everything. But you’ve made a critical error.”

“I did this all for you, Malcolm. I get it. I know what you need to do to find peace.” He moves closer to me, still rambling. He doesn’t see the ring dagger I keep sheathed under my coat, until it’s whizzed by his ear and stuck in the wall behind him. 

“Listen. Just fucking listen. And don’t move. Or I promise-” Again the big guy attempts to maneuver himself between Elliot and I. I put him on the ground, the back of his head bouncing off the bare floor. He’s stunned. I made sure not to knock him out, I want him to hear this. Sirens in the distance. This will only take a second. 

“Please, Malcolm…I swear I-”

“You have a choice to make, Charlie. You can give me respect I deserve, understand that I’m probably a step or two ahead of you. I know what you’ve done, everything, and I know why. I also know that you didn’t always have this in you,” he tries to disagree. I shift and apply steady pressure to his throat, with the right force I could easily kill him with one hand. “You and I both know this is a promise, not a threat. You’ve killed before. I’m sure you meant to help, to save someone. That’s something I’d overlook. Done it before. But *Elliot* means everything to me, and if you’d killed him, if you’d made me *too late* Charlie,” I really don’t want Elliot to hear this. I know he won’t run screaming as soon as he has the strength. He might even convince himself I’m bluffing. 

“Malcolm, please-” Charlie closes his eyes, body going practically limp. 

“Look at me, Charlie.” He obeys when I ease off of his throat, backing off of him but still knelt low enough to whisper a parting promise. “I swear...I would find anything and everything left in you to take, it still wouldn’t satisfy. I’d be so much worse than the sadistic narcissist that failed to mold me in his image. No agenda to justify it, no thrill in satisfying a scientific curiosity, not even the temporary satisfaction in the name of revenge. Take him from me and there’s *nothing* left to hold me back, to care about. You think you’re spoiled for good, and yet you commit murder to help a stranger sleep better at night? Without today’s mistakes, or whenever you put my love on your hit list, Charlie, you’re almost decent. So I’m giving you this one chance. Don’t bother answering. I’ll turn my back, you disappear, never show your face to either of us again. I promise I’ll forget you, maybe even forgive you. Try to hurt him again, keep me from helping him any longer, I’ll show you what the mind that outwits monsters is capable of.”

***

“Is there two of you, too?” Elliot tries to make light of what he’d just heard. Of course. He’s drifting a bit until I apply pressure one especially deep wound. “Fuck! Ok. You got me. I’m here.”

“I just had time on the drive over to imagine a world without you.” Elliot squeezes my hand. “He’s long gone. I don’t expect him to bother us again.”

“Charlie, or scary Malcolm?” Elliot groans while I carefully cut the straps away from where they loop underneath the metal slab by way of pre-cut slits (efficiently ensuring minimal movement by the intended victim). 

“Both if I can help it.”

“I love you too.”

***


	9. Epilogue/Every Step You Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

I still think of them sometimes, grateful for my freedom and my life, relieved I hadn’t taken my final victim before Malcolm arrived. I never wanted to push him that far, wouldn’t have believed there was a place that dark inside of a man that good. 

It’s more than enough reason to stay away, to accept that I could never be with him. Even if we’d met before Elliot came into his life, it just wasn’t meant to be. The wedding is any day now, according to announcements in the New York papers. 

Living and working on the other side of the country, I consider sending an anonymous gift. I’m sure it’s too soon. Always will be. I wonder if Malcolm ever sees the patterns, how well I cover my tracks. He’s brilliant, if he’s looking he’ll know. Until the law busts down my door I believe that Mr. Bright approves. 

Domestic bliss, at least the memory of making a good show of the idea, has given me a glimmer of hope that I’ll find what Malcolm and Elliot have.

***

“Do you ever think about him?” I know, I know. We’re supposed to be relaxing. It’s not easy to completely forget Charlie though. I’m fine. Truthfully, I’ve given myself so much worse than anything that geek could imagine. The trouble with putting him in the rearview is that he’d pushed Malcolm clear over the edge, past a breakdown and into some life-affirming epiphany. 

“Sometimes.” Waiting for him to elaborate is futile. He’s going to make me ask.

“Is the scatterbrain Sherlock Holmes schtick an act?”

“When it works.” 

“You operate on a bullshit level that makes Darlene and Tyrell jealous as fuck.” I get a nod and a bigger smile. I manage to catch the smug expression while taking a picture of us watching shitty reality shows in a hotel room. In five minutes everyone we know flips out in comments on the Instagram post. “They want us to go outside.”

“I want us to stay in bed.” Lazy honeymoon sex with one of Gordon Ramsay’s cooking competitions in the background is severely underrated.

**Author's Note:**

> I am not caught up with Mr. Robot, so please don't expect too much accuracy in cannon. I mostly just enjoy Elliot's character and think the universes fit together. So imagine this as post Mr. Robot (if everything were to end well)


End file.
